Color of Attraction
by kismet4891
Summary: AU, One shot, Mature: He is captivated by her, yet does not know her name. She notices him looking, and never bothers to find out why. While they are attracted to one another, like a moth to a flame, they choose to admire one another from afar.


_**For my friend, Sudz (who is secretly a Mellark)…Thanks for the encouragement, and help finding my inspiration through song when it is lost. **_

* * *

She is with _him_ again.

The one that I am almost positive is her lover.

There is an air of shared intimacy around them, he touches her freely, they sit close to one another, and don't prevent their knees from bumping up against each other's underneath the table.

I think I hate him.

It's irrational, I know, but I hate him with his stupid brown hair and designer, tailored suits. For chrissake, he is having lunch in our shitty cafeteria and everyone else is dressed relatively casual. I look down at my slacks and button up shirt, and feel inadequate even though this morning I felt pretty damn good about myself.

Delly had told me how handsome I looked, and that the purple shirt made my eyes pop.

Delly. _Fuck_.

I feel like a complete asshole when I think of the sweet woman. Here I am lusting after some woman I don't know, when last night I was tangled up with her. Delly, who deserves much more than my heart will ever be willing to offer her. I need to not let her stay the night as much, or break it off, or something.

It's come to that.

It always comes to that.

I noticed that she had started leaving a toothbrush and becoming pretty comfortable around the apartment. I'll think about how to deal with that later, right now may be the only time I get to see _her_ this week, the captivating woman with the braid who works with the children on the first floor.

Her lunch guest is talking.

Along with the comfort they seem to have with one another's bodies, there is something else at play here. He always seems to be talking, and she always seems to be scowling.

This fact, one that I have completely fabricated in my mind and has no basis on reality, gives me hope. She seems perpetually bored, even disinterested in conversation with the man, this is why I have decided that he isn't a partner. If he were her partner or boyfriend, or even husband, he would be able to illicit a smile from her, or some other look aside from a scowl.

She likes him enough to sleep with him, but not actually be friends with him or enjoy his presence.

Although I have never spoken to either of them, I can tell that the same cannot be said for him, my perceived competition.

The looks he gives her and the frequent_ unnecessary_ touches, paired with the fact that he chooses to dine in our terrible cafeteria, all tell a larger story. He cares for her, wants something deeper, possibly he is her Delly.

He stands to leave and pauses to press a kiss to her cheek, all the while the bored look never leaves her face, and I feel a short lived sense of victory when I think that I see her roll her eyes as he walks away.

I'm pretty sure they are fuck buddies or lovers or sex friends, or whatever one calls a relationship built around fucking. I don't like the idea, I don't like the thought of his hands on her, but it is infinitely better than if she loved him.

That I could not handle, but I would have to seeing as I know nothing about her, not even her name, or color of her eyes.

* * *

He's looking at me again, I can feel it.

I don't like it.

This is a common occurrence, while I can always take lunch in my office, leave the building, or even eat with the children, I find myself down here subjecting myself to his careful scrutiny. The way he studies me from afar is perplexing, and I think that he honestly does not realize that I know he is looking, either that or he has no shame.

No shame, could very well be his problem.

In his gaze I feel bare, like he can see my deepest secrets, and he knows who I really am. His eyes bore into me, not through me.

It's unsettling how much just the simple act of him looking at me affects me.

I used to think that he was an admirer, someone who wanted to get to know me, but as the weeks passed and I realized he just intended to sit and gaze, I became concerned that it wasn't admiration that caused his steady gaze.

If not admiration, _then what causes him to stare at me while I eat my lunch?_

This goes deeper than just people watching, there is a reason that his eyes follow me.

I feel vulnerable and I hate that.

He is a stranger to me, yet I find myself needing to know why he looks at me incessantly. I have half a mind to march over to him, throw his lunch on the floor and demand answers.

Of course, I don't do this, but it doesn't stop me from wanting to.

He pisses me off.

The blonde man would be better off staring at himself, he is captivating and beautiful, and he is wasting his time looking at me.

_Why am I constantly in his eye line? Why does this thrill and infuriate me?_

For once in my life, someone is looking at me, and even if I don't know the reasons, I am being noticed. The thought in itself is terrifying and electrifying. I've spent my whole life trying not to be noticed, surrounding myself with children as to avoid the prying examinations and tiresome interactions of other adults.

_Or, is it me doing the noticing?_

He sees me, I am exposed.

I wish that he would stop looking, and then again I don't.

I don't know what I want.

His judgments and appraisal are safe. His opinions of me will not hurt me, because he doesn't approach me. If he does judge me, it isn't too my face, and with him I am noticed but not exposed. I am utterly intrigued with him, but prefer that he maintains his distance.

And he does.

If this is admiration then he goes about it unlike any other man I have met before. He is an enigma.

Marvel joined me for lunch again, and I really wish he wouldn't have.

I like the guy well enough to sleep with him, but not enough to spend my lunch hour listening to his never-ending stories. He tells the same ones over and over again.

If only his stories were as interesting as his cock, then perhaps we would actually go on the date he continually pesters me for.

He leaves, but not before kissing my face. I hate it.

It's one thing to let him kiss my inner thighs in private, but a completely other thing to have him kissing my face in public. I prevent myself from shuddering and wiping it off.

I glance to the blonde haired man, he is wearing purple today and I appreciate the color on him.

He looks vaguely amused. I wish I knew what from, but it really is better off this way, stealing glances at one another from afar.

* * *

Those eyes…her eyes…the eyes that I dream about, and wish I knew more about.

If I could just muster the courage to approach her and gaze upon her face, then I would know for sure what color those eyes of hers were.

They sometimes appear blue, other times gray.

Really, isn't gray on the broad continuum of blue in regards to eye color?

The eye roll was glorious and perfect, and everything I _don't_ need to fuel my insane, unfounded, appraisal of her.

The elation I had momentarily felt dissipates as I realize that I have worked myself up enough watching her that I'm developing a bit of a situation in my slacks. And, because this is just the type of luck I have, she stands and busses her table, leaning forward slightly jutting the curve of her hip out. The situation I was nursing, turns into a full blown erection, and even though I've already extended my lunch hour longer than I should have to watch her, I'm now stuck here until my libido quells.

We work for the same company, but definitely not together. She does something with child development center that opened a year ago.

In that year I have been completely transfixed by the woman whose eyes entrance me, although I am not quite sure of the color.

I've spent a lot of time studying her.

It's so easy.

The window of my office has a view of the courtyard where the children play on rolling mounds of grass and playground equipment.

On mild days, I open my window and shut the door to my office. While it appears that I am dutifully designing, I am actually trying my hardest to be quiet and straining to hear her voice. Her lovely high, lilting voice, that carries all the way to my office as she serenades the children with choruses of 'Wheels on the Bus' and 'Itsy Bitsy Spider'.

Some days I stand and watch her through the window.

She is in her element in the courtyard, surrounded by miniature people, smiles come easily, and I find myself smiling back in response even though she cannot see me. I know that the smiles are not meant for me. She does not know who I am or that I am even watching.

Thinking about how creepy I really have become saddens me, but not enough to stop looking.

I have lost all shame when it comes to this woman, my voyeuristic habits only getting worse the more glimpses I get into her inner workings. Each squished nose grin, nervous tug on her left ear lobe, irritated eye roll, and note of a children's song that I observe leaves me a complete mess.

I've started to think of her at all times of the day. This cannot be good.

_What is wrong with me?_

The night I crawl between Delly's legs and realize I am imagining thick, chocolate locks spread on the pillow, not fine tresses the color of corn silk, I know that something needs to stop this madness.

I'm a coward though, and the discussion I need to have with Delly is put off for much longer than I am proud of.

* * *

Marvel tried to stay the night last night.

He's gone now though, I won't have to worry about that anymore.

I was surprised because he put up a bigger fight then I had expected, claiming all the tired favorites about how great the sex was, and how he could really see us going somewhere.

Good for him, because I saw us going nowhere except to bed.

When I feel the blonde man looking at me today, I turn and intentionally catch his gaze.

His color of choice today is baby pink, it suits him.

I like the pastel colors on him. I like that he isn't afraid to experiment with color.

I don't like that he immediately looks away, cheeks flushing so dark that I can see the blush from where I am sitting across the room. He hurriedly clears his table and leaves suddenly.

_What was that about?_

It's not that I thought he would stalk over to me and ravish me on the table.

Actually, I had thought about it, at home in the dark of night. I stroke between my legs and close my eyes, shuddering when I come and wishing I had a name to breathe to match the face that incited the fantasy.

Of course I did not expect this to happen in a crowded cafeteria. I was just hoping to have him smile at me.

Maybe he hasn't been looking at me; I glance from side to side.

_If not me, then who has caught his eye?_

* * *

Delly and all her preciousness and things are finally free of my living space.

I did it the night the woman with the braid intentionally made eye contact with me.

When Delly asked me if I had even been capable of ever loving her, I answered that I wasn't sure.

I lied to her.

I would never love her the way she wanted.

I'm starting to fear that I don't know what love is or if I am even capable of it, I am more than slightly disturbed to realize that the closest thing I have felt of love are the feelings I have for the woman with the braid.

They are alarmingly getting deeper and more profound.

I've lusted after women before, but never like this.

When I thought of her it used to be mere sexual escapades I day dreamt of, thoughts that could be catalogued to assist me while jerking off. Images of pushing her over my desk and fucking her silly from behind, burying my head between her thighs and discovering whether or not her screams were as magical as her singing voice.

Those fantasies have been replaced by images of breakfast in bed, late night snuggles, movie watching on the couch, and mundane Monday mornings where she is the one whose voice I hear first.

I'm fucked and I know it.

I still imagine all the filthy things that we could do to one another, now there are just little snippets of domestic bliss interwoven between the fantasies of her writhing underneath me and singing my name.

Goddamn, I sound like a creep, a stalker, a delusional man, and I find myself a tad terrifying.

I cannot help myself.

* * *

Gale joins me for lunch to discuss our vacation plans. I will be accompanying him and his partner on a cruise.

I don't really want to go.

They plied me though, with promises that I could wander the decks and read whatever smut novel I wanted to without being bothered. The cruise line company caters to the gay community, and while I won't be the only heterosexual person on the cruise, there will not be many.

His stare, the blonde man's, is more intense today. I can feel it without ever turning to confirm it.

He is wearing a peach colored polo and it makes his hair almost glow.

His eyes drill straight into me, and even though Gale is chattering on about destinations and famous cocktails, all I can focus on is the increasing wetness in my panties.

I force myself to tune into what Gale is saying when he places a hand on my wrist and asks what I'm thinking about. _Nothing_, I tell him and then bring up evening wear and highly anticipated parties.

When Gale leaves I turn to see if I can fluster the man again, only to see that he is gone.

There is always tomorrow.

* * *

I had been resolute in my decision.

I had decided that day would be the day that I finally talked to her. I had convinced myself, that if I could just learn her name and possibly speak with her I could hopefully cleanse her from my thoughts and mind.

I became increasingly nervous as lunch approached. I felt a certain sense of clarity that I was making the right decision.

But, then_ he_ was there.

A dark headed man, a striking man, a handsome man, and a man who she greeted with a smile and allowed to hug her without rolling her eyes.

A new man whose very presence, suddenly explained the absence of the man who talked incessantly, wore expensive suits, and had brown hair.

There was an air of familiarity between them.

They knew one another, they cared about one another, and she reciprocated the new man's feelings. She smiled and laughed with him.

He touched her often. I saw her back shake with laughter.

I'm too late.

_Really, though, was I ever invited to the party?_

* * *

He's gone.

I'm not sure where he is, but he has disappeared and I miss him.

I have no clue why.

I miss his stare. I miss his Easter egg colored shirts. I miss that mop of blonde curls. I miss his scrutiny.

I miss being noticed by him.

The cruise was fun, and when I got back I expected to see him, but he's gone without a trace.

Lunch time never felt lonelier.

_Did he take another job? Will I ever see him again? _

The most important question though, w_hy do I care?_

* * *

Since the day I saw her with the dark headed man, I have taken to eating in my office. I still keep the window cracked, but have really made an effort to stop watching her.

No one really questions my sudden interest in work, because we have been swamped. We have all taken to working longer hours to meet client demand.

I'm working through my email inbox when a light knock at my door interrupts me, "Mr. Mellark?" a woman's voice questions, and I look up from the computer.

My breath completely catches in my throat.

It's her.

I can only imagine the look on my face, because she stands in the doorway with a confused look, "I'm sorry for interrupting, I was told that I could find Mr. Mellark here."

Gray eyes.

I now have an answer to the question I have been asking myself for a year.

They are without a doubt gray, and while gray may be a shade of ordinary blue they are the most unique pair of eyes that I have ever seen.

* * *

Blue eyes.

That's all I can see, it's all I can process, and in this moment it seems to be the only thing that I have ever known.

They are a light crystalline blue, similar to a newborns before they darken.

They are both eerie and lovely.

He is handsome, perhaps the most handsome man I have seen in person, or maybe not. My eyes dart to his hands, thick fingers and no wedding band.

He answers me, "Yes, I'm Peeta Mellark. How can I help you?"

I wasn't expecting him to be soft spoken. I don't mean that his voice is quiet, it resonates through the room at a perfect volume, but there is no edge to his voice when he speaks. His tone is rounded and deep, masculine but not hard.

I rather like it and quickly add it to the list of things I know about this man.

It is short, despite feeling like volumes.

I can add his name to this list. His cover is blown, I know who he is now.

I don't quite know how to act because he is staring at me, _but isn't he always staring at me?_ I should be used to it, and I am when he is fifteen feet away.

This is different, he is different. _Why am I here again?_

I want to ask him where he has been. I've missed his gaze, I've missed our _almost_ interactions, and I've missed seeing him.

* * *

She is even lovelier up close.

Her beauty is quiet and reserved like a placid lake, breath taking and undeniable, yet serene and inconspicuous.

"Yes, I have an appointment with you in ten minutes. Sorry for being early, I can wait in the hallway." She sounds different; her speaking voice isn't as high as her singing voice. There is an edge to it with an almost imperceptible tremor.

It's unexpected, but I find the surprise delightful.

I don't want her in the hallway, I want her here, I want to know why she has an appointment with me, and why I didn't know that she was coming.

I gesture to the cushy chair in front of my desk and walk around to the front to lean against the edge. My intention was to offer a handshake, but I don't.

I don't think I can handle actually touching her.

"You're fine. Please come in and have a seat. I'm sorry I don't think you made it to my appointment book, Miss…?" Of all the lines I imagined saying to her and I open with this.

I'm shocked at how calm I sound.

Inside me there is a storm raging, moving rapidly, churning and building, I want to tell her everything.

I'm not sure what, but I feel like I need to confess something.

"Katniss, but please drop the Miss, only the children call me Miss Katniss." She speaks as she sits.

"Katniss, it is then." My mouth caresses her name as my brain and cock savor the knowledge that she is no longer a nameless face.

"And, please, call me Peeta. What can I do for you, Katniss?" the second time I breathe her name it is completely unnecessary, excessive almost, but I enjoy how her name ends with a hiss.

* * *

I am relieved, yet upset when he doesn't offer to shake my hand.

The relief I feel is because my hands are trembling so badly, I have to tuck them in my lap to hide the obvious tremble. I'm upset because I want to know what his skin feels like as it rubs against mine.

His hands are perfect and captivating, appearing to be capable of creating and destroying.

It's best we didn't touch.

I'm entirely too affected by his presence, touching him would be too much.

"We need more marketing materials for the child development center, and I'm not entirely happy with the design. They said you could help, that is if you don't mind?"My body gravitates towards his, we are talking about design and work and everything else.

I do not ask the sudden, burning questions at the forefront of my mind.

_Why do you stare at me, Peeta Mellark? _

More importantly_, why do I like it?_

He speaks and I find myself staring at his mouth. It is calling to me, begging to be tasted. "What did you have in mind?"

"The colors of the materials are bold, whereas in a developmentally appropriate environment the children should be the brightest thing in the room. The color and life of the classroom is by their presence and design. It is not one dimensional. The brochures should match our classrooms, our children, and our purpose. Perhaps, if you visited one of our rooms you could see what I meant."

* * *

My fate is decided.

There will be no recovery for me now.

Her passion, the way she speaks of the classrooms is almost palpable.

I need to know more about her.

My heart clenches painfully in my chest as I resist the urge to pull her from her seat and claim her mouth.

"The way you speak of them, how could I deny such an offer? I have some time available now."

Her tongue darts from her mouth and wets her lips before her teeth pull her bottom lip in, nibbling on it.

I hold my breath, knowing that if I exhale now it will come out resembling a moan.

"Sounds good. The children love having visitors." She stands and her eyes, those fucking gray eyes that are more perfect than I could have ever imagined, focus below my own.

She can't even maintain eye contact with me.

I've made her uncomfortable.

My stalker vibe must be completely evident. I fear that she will dart for the door.

We are mere inches apart and I can smell her, she smells like soap and paint. She has flecks of green paint in her braid, most likely from painting with the children.

I glance at her face again. She is standing so close now, and her eyes are now locked with mine.

I stare at her.

She stares at me.

It is taking everything I have to not kiss her. I can't make myself move, step away from her proximity and give myself some space.

She doesn't move either.

_Can she feel it? Is this a fluke? Am I dreaming?_

* * *

I should move.

I don't think I can move.

I just learned his name and I want to kiss him. It would be easy, just a simple push off the balls of my feet onto my tippy toes, and I could discover how he tastes.

_Would he let me?_

He isn't moving either. Just staring straight at me and breathing heavily.

His gaze is so much more intense up close, it is reverent, and I feel undeserving and simultaneously deserving.

This entire situation is crazy.

I'm crazy.

He steps forward.

I step forward.

We breathe one another in and I am lost to this moment, lost to this man I do not know, but yearn for his attention.

* * *

_**Also, thanks to Mr. Unstoppable for his lightning fast beta skills.**_


End file.
